


Shards

by wolftrapvirginia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7344958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolftrapvirginia/pseuds/wolftrapvirginia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a few months later the memories are all fragmentary, small pieces appearing here and there - a quick-witted line, a grin, an explosion - but without a single unifying picture. Like shards of a broken mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

***

 

                 Even a few months later the memories are all fragmentary, small pieces appearing here and there - a quick-witted line, a grin, an explosion - but without a single unifying picture. Like shards of a broken mirror. 

Brad goes out to buy a carton of milk and BAM it just hits — the bridge to Al Muwaffiqiyah: the cars stuck against each other, men in the trees, LT - ( _Nate_ ) - abandoning his vehicle mid-ambush to guide them out of the jam. And then jabbering about petting a burning dog, like this was just another one of his favorite epics. 

Brad rides his bike through sleepy Oceanside, humming some half-forgotten lyrics to a song, and at the red light it’s no longer California but the roadblock in Al Hayy, where Walt shot someone, despite Brad’s best efforts to minimize the civilian losses.

Sleep has never been Brad’s problem, he falls asleep to the sound of late night TV (loud soundtracks and gunfire) but every now and then he dreams of driving blindly into the dark of the desert, barely working N.V.Gs with dying batteries, the heat, the dirt, the danger lurking.

                Brad remembers the highlights very well.  

Pieces like shards of glass stuck in Brad’s head and refuse to come out or form an entire experience.

It’s one of the earliest memories of Brad’s life. Shards of a mirror, all over the floor, and his red-stained hands scrambling for the pieces that are digging harder into his skin. It hurts but is also fascinating: can he find them all, and if he does, what will happen then? Will the mirror come back together? Will his mother return? 

But he is grown now; he knows, grasping at the shards brings only pain.

 

***

 

                 Brad is no stranger to adrenaline but unlike the heady excitement of combat and speeding, this is borne out of pure hate. “What is this I’m hearing, you’re running around calling Lieutenant Fick a coward?” The beauty of confronting a liar is about finding out all the information beforehand. (When Julie lied, Brad already knew.)

Kasem starts the usual song and dance, seemingly torn between not wanting to admit being a fucking gossip girl, and quick righteous indignation. 

If looks could kill, Brad’s M-4 would pale in comparison. Ray quickly appears at his side, obviously feeling the tension.

“Nice to know you guys find time to chit chat when me and Walt have been half of the day trying to get our Mark-19 unjammed again.”

“Shut up, Ray.”

“He is dangerous, Brad,” Casey Kasem mutters. Righteous indignation it is. “The ability of the Marine Corps to function effectively depends on following orders of your superior officer. Fick is not capable of that and he is putting this entire platoon at risk.”

“First of all, goddamnit, it’s _Lieutenant_ Fick,” Brad spits out. Ray shakes his head vehemently behind Kasem. “Secondly, what puts this platoon at risk is the inability to gather an accurate number of supplies necessary for combat readiness. Like those batteries and LSA we’re still lacking." 

“He's an idealist,” Casey Kasem blurts out, before hobbling away. “Nothing’s more dangerous than an idealist.”

The blood-red sun is soaking the horizon behind them, the last blazing rays illuminating the Humvees; Brad turns away momentarily and peers into the sunset, something visible only to him.

Ray snorts angrily behind, flipping a bird intended for Gunny’s disappearing backside.  “I’m pretty sure a moron is adequate competition!” 

 

***

 

              Neither of them can sleep. It’s almost dawn anyway.

              Brad leans back against the berm, allowing himself to bitch about the brainless command that are utilizing them like Iraqis use their donkeys. The bitching allows him to pull very very small smiles out of Nate; like Mona Lisa’s, the corners of his mouth lift up infinitesimally at Brad’s intricate 10-adjective insults.  Brad feels like he’s back in junior high, chatting a cheerleader behind the bleachers. And the thought makes him fucking _high_.

They share this short burst of peace before it will once again undoubtedly go to shit. “You should get some rest, sir,” Brad tries not to be selfish. The night is slowly fading into the background; the platoon is Cinderella, running out of time before the clock strikes g _et up and kill_.

             The casualness of the LT’s shrug is a thing to behold. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Captain Schwetje was hesitating on the intel yesterday… I ended up watching the sunrise.” He leans back, visibly relaxing into the conversation, the typically too-deep lines temporarily smoothing out around his forehead, and he looks closer to his actual age. 

Brad smirks. “How was it?”

“Average.” There are absinth-green sparks dancing in Nate’s eyes; the creeping dawn takes care of illuminating them for Brad. 

Brad laughs hearty, stretching his legs out. He suppresses a yawn. “Aren’t you entirely too young for such  disappointment-ridden platitudes worthy of MILFs and old farts? _Sir_.”

Nate snorts. “I think I’ve got enough disappointment bottled up to power a small country,” he confesses.

 

           Suddenly there is a sound carrying across the relative quiet of the desert that is not from mortars or gunfire. They’re close enough to a small village; a male voice reciting the morning call to prayer. Nate looks down at his watch. 

Brad stares into the distance, where the village should be, behind the wisps of sandy dust. “Should we be worried about unrest?” 

“Prayer is a good thing. Maybe it'll keep them too preoccupied to shoot at us.” Nate’s bright eyes are entirely too close when Brad turns back, too green (like Californian oak trees), and too open.

It is strange and yet serene, the last remnants of the cozy darkness before they step into the day, bright, bloodstained, unforgiving.  

 

          The LT licks his full lips subconsciously like he does a thousand times a day, and Brad stares, unabashedly. Nate stares back instead of turning away; he is once again gorgeously defiant against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And Brad too. 

 

          He bites his lower lip before speaking calmly.  “It’s funny, Romans understood worshipping as a contract between themselves and a deity. Any prayer implied a small offering to the god first, in exchange for the desired result. Too bad today most religions are entirely one-sided.”

 

          Brad feels the thin angry orange line of the dawn digging its claws into the back of his neck. “All that smart overprivileged liberal dicksuck Dartmouth talk, sir, and we still have to skid around the issue.” 

 

“ _Brad_ ,” Nate says sternly in his low commanding voice that he uses in briefings and on the comms. Brad looks down: his hand is gripping Nate’s wrist, hard enough to bruise and he doesn’t know how it got there. He doesn’t pull away, and as he looks back up, Nate’s pupils are telltale floating saucers.

 

“Time to limit the number of blowjob-related jokes, Sergeant,” Nate murmurs into Brad's lips.  

 “Can’t do,"Brad growls. "Not with that mouth of yours.”

_Tell me to stop, tell me to stop, tell me to stop._

_I don't want to._

It's inevitable, a rocket launched against the designated target. 

"Tell me to stop," Brad says calmly.

Before Brad knows it, they’re kissing to the sound of morning prayer, Nate’s dry chapped lips sliding against his, opening up, Nate’s strong hands first pushing at him, then grabbing his shoulders to pull their bodies closer together. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Some pieces of the puzzle fit perfectly but some pieces seem to be extra. Like how a young boy takes his alarm clock but cannot put it back together because suddenly some of the parts no longer fit anywhere. But the alarm clock can’t function without them. 

 

Other pieces Brad wishes were extra but are not.

 

It is a memory made of stale heat and uncomfortable desperation after the assault on the bridge after Nate risks his life to get them out, Humvees sandwiched together in a perfect trap by the enemy RPG teams and their incredibly stupid command, and after another Humvee gets stuck on the bridge. 

 

That night, Nate seeks Brad out, not the other way around. Brad doesn’t want to talk, Brad doesn’t want to see Nate’s fucking too-wide eyes, so apologetic and remorseful after blatantly ignoring the men’s warnings at the last Team Leader meeting, Nate’s poor attempts at comforting, hands fidgeting, random gestures flying in the air. Not tonight. 

 

Brad’s back is a taut string of control and apathy as he walks to his freshly dug grave. Even Espera is quiet as they pass each other; he knows better than to reach out to Brad when he is like this. (Their eyes meet, briefly, as they take in each other’s deep-seated ache. Poke’s glad not to lose any of his “babies” but they both know it was a very close call. Brad remembers Poke’s words at the Team Leader meeting, responding to Nate’s prompts of killing bad guys, “Must be all the bad guys in those women and children we’ve been stacking along the roads”. It’s been getting to Poke for a while now, just as it’s now getting to Brad. Brad nods at him once, Poke returning the nod as they pass each other.)

 

“Brad.” Of course, the LT is reckless enough to try, always just a little too reckless, too close, too fucking _there_. And now he stops in front of Brad while he is busy inspecting the tire on the Humvee, peering into the Iceman’s eyes, searching for something. Absolution? Better not be that.

 

“Sir.” He focuses on unscrewing the bolt, right index finger numb from firing his weapon for most of the night.

 

“We’re on seventy-five percent watch until morning,” Nate says firmly, but his eyes are still restless. Blown pupils are jumping all over Brad’s face. 

 

“Roger that, sir.” Brad’s voice is pure steel. He promptly gets up and turns to leave but Nate’s free hand lands on his shoulder, gripping tightly. They both end up stepping closer to each other, the air buzzing with unmissable tension. 

 

“Brad—“ Nate starts, and then looks down. The arm on Brad’s shoulder is shaking; he can feel the vibrations through the thick layer of his MOPP suit and the broad strap of the M-4. Nate looks up again and his face is an open book. “Brad, I know this was an extremely tricky situation, and—“

 

Brad is so tired. “Sir, my team’s vehicle needs a thorough tire inspection. Permission to attend to it.”

 

Ray is babysitting the Reporter, both of them digging the graves behind the Humvee, Walt is finally sleeping and Trombley is behind the bushes, taking a shit. If nothing else, Brad needs to busy his hands with an easy task.

 

Nate narrows his eyes. “Permission denied. Don’t interrupt me, Sergeant.”

 

Brad nods, once, all expression drained from his face. 

 

“Nevermind,” Nate says after a pause, eyes burning. And then he turns to leave.

 

He is pushing and pushing and pushing, and suddenly Brad forgets where they are, forgets that warm kiss in the melting dawn, forgets that Nate is his CO.

 

Fick gasps as he is pushed against the side of the Humvee, Brad’s strong tall frame leaning into him with uncomfortable force. Brad hisses, “You ignored every warning the team leaders gave you, defending the sheer stupidity of the command. Then you jumped out of your truck without your fucking weapon. Then you deliberately put yourself in the middle of the ambush, a target waiting to get hit by us, Captain America, or the insurgents.” 

 

Nate pushes him off forcefully, strong enough to bruise, and Brad suddenly _remembers_. They’re standing in the middle of the platoon, in fuckbutt Iraq, no longer hiding their eyes from each other. And Nate, unbearable and intransigent Nate is standing right here, very much alive and presently very angry at him. “Careful not to overstep, Sergeant.” Green eyes are blazing but neither of them moves.

 

“And next time, what? You’ll lie down in front of the LAV?” 

 

“You were stuck,” Nate says calmly, quietly. “I saw an RPG streak over rear hatch of your Humvee.” His skin under the patches of dirt is pale from exhaustion. “I couldn’t let you stay there to get killed.”

 

Brad knows, fucking _knows_ he is talking about all of Bravo's men and not just Brad but he can’t help feeling the more personal subtext hiding beneath Nate's words. _I couldn’t let you just stay there, Brad._

 

Ray or Trombley are to return any second, and Brad doesn’t want to waste any more time. He leans in, hands pressing into the solid heavy surface of the Humvee, surrounding Nate with his body on both sides. As if he can shield him like this, from all the mindfuckery and danger, from all the pain that’s slowly creeping its way into Nate’s eyes. 

 

But Brad knows better than to issue orders.

 

Nate looks at him with his trademark defiant expression but it’s softer at the corners now. “I need to check in with command. And Mike’s waiting for me.”

 

Brad leans in, and it’s more intimate than he wants it to look. He whispers into the LT’s neck, “I fucking listened to those comms, waiting to hear that you got shot. Do you even _understand_ —“

 

But he cuts himself off because he sees Ray on his six, closing in. They part quickly, like adolescents getting caught by a strict parent after making out, and he watches as Nate walks away with wide eyes and unsaid rebuttals. 

 

***

 

Maybe Captain America had a point. Remaining sane in such conditions is the definition of insane. 

The following morning Nate gives the Team Leaders his “burning dog” monologue, like they’re characters from ancient Greek myths. Like Nate couldn’t have been hit by a bullet a few hours ago.

 

“Last night we pet a burning dog,” Nate proclaims, belatedly quoting Pappy. “You know it, I know it. There’s no use in pretending we didn’t.”

 

“That’s very astute, sir,” Brad says, and watches as those absinth-colored eyes peer into him with undiluted anger. 

 

Brad’s hands are steady on his weapon as they roll further into their shamal-clouded hell, with Nate’s voice filling the air over the comms. Brad understands loss unspeakably well. 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Two shards of memories come out of Baghdad: each is a pretty solid piece and Brad willingly comes back to them in his head as he drives around Oceanside in the early hours of the morning.

 

Brad burns his hand in Baghdad. It is a barely-there type of a burn, first degree, a mere kiss of a flame landing on his bare hand mid-assault. An insurgent runs out in the street as they patrol it and opens fire; as he goes down, another insurgent from behind throws a hand grenade that lands between the Reporter’s legs. The Reporter doesn’t have time to react, and as Brad pulls him away, he burns his hand in the process. 

 

It doesn’t ache at all until they retreat back to the relative safety. And even then, it is a light-feathered burning sensation, as thin as a dusty cloud of sand; Brad grits his teeth once when he carelessly brushes the injured part of his hand against his rifle. He looks down at it in surprise and finally notices the angry red welts, raised off the tanned skin. 

 

Unfortunately, Gunny notices that slight wince; Gunny throws him a single look and then continues walking. Brad knows his Mother Hen ways entirely too well to believe that will be the end of it, but at least he hopes Doc Bryan or whoever Gunny sends in will just brush it off as too minor to waste their time on it.

 

Brad is absent-mindedly listening to Ray’s monologue about the benefits of chocolate-flavored milkshakes as opposed to vanilla-flavored ones (that is sometimes interrupted by the quieter sounds of Walt scoffing and the louder sounds of Poke’s reiterations about the implications of chocolate being used as a term for darker skin), when he hears the familiar purposeful footsteps hitting the warm sand and lifts his head.

 

He knows, of course, that it isn’t Bryan, it isn’t Gunny or anyone from the medical team for that matter. At this point, he would recognize Nate’s measured and yet somewhat “adolescent”, as the Reporter put it, stride anywhere. 

 

He meets Nate’s eyes that he’s sure would look impartial to anyone else but he knows to be filled with concern. He suddenly realizes he can see through Nate’s defenses, and it worries him that Nate could see through his own.

 

Nate turns his head slightly, in a gesture that has become so ridiculously familiar; in equal parts half-defiance, half-assessment. “Brad? A word?”

 

Brad nods with a quick “sir” and stands up; he has to make an effort not to let the M-4 catch on his burned skin again, so he hides the hand awkwardly behind the large scope, at the same time, keeping it far enough from touching it. It is, of course, a futile exercise: Nate already knows, eyes scanning Brad’s right hand from the moment he came up to him, and everyone else in the vicinity is too preoccupied to notice. And the hand is burning anyway, even without being caught on anything. But it feels strangely vulnerable to be like this in front of Nate and Brad can’t help it.

 

Nate turns and leads the way, which is apparently way out there, through the Humvees, Marines, and random islands of grass probably to his truck; Brad walks a step behind him, calmly, trying to gauge what it was exactly that Gunny told the LT. That he saw Brad with a burned hand? That Brad didn’t tend to it? Why did he tell him at all, why not just send in Bryan?

 

Per Nate’s nod, he wordlessly gets in the back of the truck and Nate follows, throwing a net over the entry, granting them  shade and relative privacy. As Brad’s eyes adjust to the darker environment, the LT gestures for him to sit on one of the two woobies. The sleeping area is Nate’s, he knows this instantly from one glance because it is impeccably made up, every corner tucked in according to regulation. He watches Nate’s lean form settle next to him and notices the open first-aid box in Nate’s lap.  

 

“Your hand,” Nate says calmly. 

 

Their eyes meet. If it is a challenge then Brad gives in, but not before searching Nate’s red-rimmed pools of green for a sign of _anything_. Anger, sadness, disappointment. There’s nothing, except the ever-present tiredness. 

 

He draws out his injured hand tentatively. It’s even redder now, but Brad barely feels it, disconnects from it entirely, as if it wasn’t his. 

 

Nate takes a fresh gauze that he soaks in drinking water from a bottle; he inches closer, and puts the gauze flat on the wound, holding Brad’s palm sternly underneath with his own left hand. The grip is strong, reassuring. 

 

It hurts suddenly, _so so much_ , but at the same time the water is cool that is somewhat soothing.  Nate lifts his eyes, watching Brad’s face.  “Did you know that I once wanted go to medical school? I was on the pre-med track in college, took all the mandatory classes.”

 

“Mmm,” Brad offers noncommittally, testing his voice. The gauze gets warmer, and Nate pulls it away to re-soak it in the chilled water before pressing it against Brad’s burn again. “So what, now you get to play Doctor Fick without worrying about getting s—uh”, he tries to talk through it but doesn’t want his voice to quiver, “Sued”.

 

“Tshh, don’t talk,” Nate brushes up and down his forearm with his own free hand, a what was intended to be a quick and light gesture that nevertheless treacherously sends a million hot needles pricking all over Brad’s body, and turns back to the aid-kit. “Yeah, I’ve taken General Biology with labs, Physics… But then I failed a chemistry exam. I never failed anything before, you know? I made sure to get the highest SAT scores, the best essay, four-point-one GPA. Every team sport I picked, I tried to do my best in. Keep it firmly pressed, ok?” Another cooled compress feels much lighter and more welcome on Brad’s skin, and he obeys, pressing on it himself. “I was so upset.”

 

The sun’s rays peeking through the net are illuminating parts of Nate’s face as he rummages through the kit, and Brad drinks the details in. It’s so fucked up, but he gets off on this — being this close, the memory of Nate’s full lips quivering against his, Nate’s smell, his fucking green eyes and too-long lashes, his hard wiry body, and confident hands. And this caring bullshit, tending to Brad, like he actually wants him to be alright, worries about him… _Fuck fuck fuck_. 

 

Brad takes a deep breath in. He can’t let himself get like this. 

 

The perfectly soothing octave of Nate’s voice, not exactly whispering but quiet enough, intimate enough fills him to the brim. “I failed a midterm which meant I had to drop the class and I knew that meant I wasn’t going to med school. I wasn’t going to be a doctor. It wasn’t just the class — I could fight to retake the exam or take the class later, I was a star athlete with otherwise perfect grades, many professors respected me enough to help. But something just shifted that spring, something changed and couldn’t go back to being the same anymore.” He finds whatever he was looking for and turns back to Brad. 

 

“That’s enough of the cold, I think,” he inspects the burn closely. The welts are white now, the burning barely registering in Brad’s brain. “I’m going to put this antiseptic cream on, and then we’ll wrap dry gauze around it. You’ll have to change it every couple hours, I’ll give you the whole roll.” 

 

“It’s a shame,” Brad drawls finally, as he watches Nate’s gloved fingers rub the ointment on gently, “You would make a pretty good doctor, sir.” 

 

The corner of Nate’s lips lifts infinitesimally, Brad’s ever-favorite trophy. “Well, I can do _this_. Ok, so it’s very easy to tie, let me show you. You just tear here, on this end? And then tie these together. This shouldn’t be too tight, but it must be tight enough to keep the dirt away.” They tie the small knot of the gauze together, and Nate tucks a fresh packaged roll of gauze into one of the pockets on Brad’s vest. 

 

“Yes, sir,” Brad grins, earning another lift of Nate’s lips. 

 

“Feels better?” Nate gestures at the hand, as Brad reaches it back to experimentally grasp at his M-4. Brad nods, their eyes never breaking contact. He barely thinks about the hand.

 

“Good. We should head back.”  

 

Brad is almost out of the truck, but he turns at the last second. Nate is standing there, dirt patches on his face, bending his head and shoulders in the small space, the new sand-colored fatigues clinging to his body much tighter than the loose MOPP suit, dark green holster strap accentuating his slender thigh. 

 

“I’m glad you failed it, sir.” Brad says before he turns to leave.

 

 

 

***

The second piece is pure pornography, with Brad’s added details that he keeps remembering after but the ones he didn’t give a shit at the time. It’s been entirely too long for both of them, this ever-present longing, dull and achy, and so he sort of takes advantage of the situation when fucking Encino Man ends up disappointing Nate again with the lack of patrols at night. There are to be none, to be exact. 

 

It’s their second- first?- night in Baghdad, at the abandoned cigarette factory. Too many dark corners and floors of doors with locks on them for Brad to keep his cool. So when he runs into the LT, flustered and angry, he stops thinking about the dangerousness of it. When Brad asks him what happened, Nate just swears under his breath; it’s barely heard, barely-there, but it’s different now; it’s a comment against the command, Nate breaking his own rules, and it’s too fucking hot to bear.

 

He pulls Nate into the room on his right, tugging on his sleeve like a restless child. It’s above the warehouse, a room bigger than an office but small enough. And it has a lock on the door that grins at Brad through the dark. 

 

They end up against the wall stacked with boxes of cartons all the way to the ceiling, and as Brad rips into Nate’s uniform the cigarettes rain and clatter around them like shell cases. He bites at Nate’s neck and tastes soap there - earlier in the day everyone was able to take an ice cold shower from the hose. And Nate’s face is so fucking open to him without the usual dirt marks on it, still pale and vulnerable, but there is nothing innocent about him as he pulls Brad’s pants down, _finally_ , fingers searching, rough and needy. Brad blacks out a little, fantasy colliding with reality, but later on he can fill out certain details. There isn't a single word said throughout. 

It is Brad’s favorite memory. 

**Author's Note:**

> to be continued;


End file.
